This is Halloween
by Potix
Summary: "Are you aware of what day tomorrow is, Dr. Hooper?"."It's already tomorrow, Sherlock. October 31st"."Halloween, Molly" - A Tim Burtonesque Sherlolly story.


**Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. Tim Burton owns the character of Beetlejuice, Washington Irving owns the character of Katrina Van Tassel, and James Malcom Rymer and ****Thomas Peckett Prest own the character of Sweeney Todd (this is probably the longest disclaimer I have ever written, I hope none will sue me).****I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, please forgive the mistakes and the typos.**

**This story is dedicated to Flavialikestodraw on Tumblr, because she's one gifted Italian girl, and I wanted to celebrate her awesome talent, and thank her for her amazing drawing that this little story (you can find it here: http flavialikestodraw dot tumblr dot com/post/65627490757/because-i-love-halloween-and- im-a -huge-fan-of, or you can simply check out the sherlolly tag on Tumblr for her other amazing works).**

**Set a few years after Sherlock's return to London...so, let's say five years after Reichenbach's fall. Ah, for the sake of my story, John is single here.**

_**Boys and girls of every age  
Wouldn't you like to see something strange**_

_**This is Halloween  
This is Halloween  
Halloween! Halloween!  
Halloween! Halloween!**_

**_In this town we call home_**  
**_Everyone hail to the pumpkin song_**

**_La la-la- la,_**  
**_Halloween! Halloween!_**

**Danny Elfman, "This is Halloween", from Tim Burton's The Nightmare Before Christmas**

**Now:**

"You kissed my pathologist!"

Sherlock's deep voice boomed within the living room's walls at Baker Street. John Watson would have probably laughed at Sherlock's indignant accusation, if it hadn't been for the sharp razor in Sherlock's hand, and if he hadn't said the truth. He had kissed Molly Hooper, indeed.

**24 hours ago...**

Molly Hooper, the youngest head-pathologist in the history of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, was slightly disappointed with herself. She was currently hailing a cab, at 2 a.m. In the morning, under a downpour, just after having finished a 12 hours long turn, only because the famous Sherlock Holmes had sent her several texts through the night, and he apparently had no intention to stop. Some were pleading, some were sternly ordering to bring him home a bag. A bag full of ring-fingers, precisely.

The first text was quite typical.

"Forgot a bag full of fingers at the morgue. Bring them to me-SH"

She ignored it effortlessly, but after five minutes she heard her smartphone ring again. And again. And again.

"A man's life is at stake. I need those fingers to prove his innocence-SH"

"Molly, don't be immature. Answer me-SH"

"You're a doctor, Molly. Do you remember the Hippocratic Oath?-SH"

After the last text, Molly was starting to feel the tiniest sting of guilt, and her conscience guided her fingers towards the keyboard, when Sherlock send her another text.

"Leave St. Barts. Now. It's an order-SH"

"An order?! And who do you think you are to give me orders, Mr Holmes?" she asked aloud in the empty room. She was tempted to give him a piece of her mind, but then she decided that indifference was the best punishment for a narcissistic prick like Sherlock, and she put the mobile back in her bag, diverting her attention again to the paperwork.

He continued to send texts, and she continued to ignore them, until it was time for her to go home, finally. Twenty-three more texts were waiting for her.

"You're behaving like a child, Molly-SH"

"I'm not asking for much. Come at Baker Street right now. And don't forget the fingers-SH"

"Please, Molly-SH"

"I'm sorry. Hurry up-SH"

"The more you ignore me, the more insistent I'm going to be-SH"

"What do you want me to do? I already apologised!-SH"

"Sorry, sorry, sorry-SH"

"Your hair were particularly shiny today. New shampoo?-SH"

"You have lost a few pounds-SH"

"I'm losing my patience, Molly-SH"

"Molly, please-SH"

"I will kidnap Toby if you don't arrive within the next twenty minutes-SH"

Twenty minutes later:

"I won't do anything to Toby. It's too old, it will probably die of a seizure anyway-SH"

"Sorry-SH"

"I won't threaten your cat again. Now we're even. Bring me the fingers-SH"

"How can you be so cruel, Dr. Hooper?-SH"

"Because of you, an innocent man is rotting in prison. Don't you have a heart, Molly?-SH"

"Fine. I understand. I won't disturb you again, Dr. Hooper. Good night-SH"

Ten seconds later:

"I don't understand why you're ignoring me. Is it because of something I said?-SH"

"I like the sweater you were wearing today. It brought out your eyes. Bring me the fingers-SH"

"I was lying. The sweater was hideous. Bring me the fingers anyway-SH"

"Fingers. Bakers Street. Now-SH"

"I need you-SH"

The entire spectrum of human emotions depicted through texts. "And then the man defined himself incapable of feelings". Molly snorted, and took a last look at the last message. "I need you". _"Will it be one time in the future when that simple sentence, those three words, won't make me leave everything I'm doing,to rush to him?"_.Rhetorical question - the answer was obviously "No", and the consulting detective knew it damn well. She thought about scolding him, for using once again manipulation to get something from her, but she knew that it was useless: the previous twenty-two text were simply forgotten, they didn't matter: the last one was the only one important to her. For someone so selfish, so convinced of his own intelligence and capabilities, admitting that he needed someone, was enough punishment.

She quickly changed, and ran to the exit, the severed fingers safe in a tote bag. Water was pouring from the sky, and she inhaled, breathing in the rain air. Time to hail a cab, and go to the owner of her heart. A few moments after she closed the car door, another text arrived. "Don't bother knocking. Door's open". An Insufferable prick, the owner of her heart was.

* * *

She arrived at Baker Street twenty minutes later. She climbed the stairs slowly, trying to avoid making noise, to let Mrs Hudson sleep:with Sherlock as a tenant, she needed all the rest she could get. Sherlock's flat's door was open too, and the consulting detective was currently huddled up on the sofa, his face hidden by the cushions. It was the first time she saw Sherlock sleeping, and determined to not disturb him too, she walked across the living room on tiptoe and left the bag full of fingers on the scarred kitchen table. She was approaching the door when his deep voice reached her.

"How do you feel about costumes, Molly?".

Not peacefully asleep then. She turned to face him, and shrugged. "Define the context".

"Are you aware of what day tomorrow is, Dr. Hooper?"

"It's already tomorrow, Sherlock. October 31st"

"Halloween, Molly"

"I know..."

"Would you like to go to a party,let's say in...18 hours?"

"A party? A Halloween party?!" she exclaimed,in complete disbelief.

He sounded a bit offended when he answered "A Halloween party. Why this sudden hilarity?"

"I was thinking of you and Mycroft, dressed up for Halloween..." she managed to answer between the giggling, but his hard stare immediately sobered her up.

"It's funny you're mentioning my dear brother...it's because of him that I'm obliged to attend a stupid themed party in Mayfair, to find a treacherous double agent...and I need John and you to mingle with the guests, in order to end this ordeal quickly and successfully. So, I reckon that if you'll come here at 7 p.m. there is going to be plenty of time for all of us to prepare". Sherlock was guiding her towards the door, and Molly managed to ask him, before the door closed behind her "Ok, but what about the costumes?!"

"Mycroft is selecting them. Knowing my brother's taste, they are going to be completely boring. See you later, Molly". And with those words, Molly Hooper found herself on the stairs, invited to an exclusive Halloween party by Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

He was wrong (it happened rarely, but it happened, nonetheless). Mycroft's choices of outfit for the three of them were not boring: they were simply ridiculous. Believing to be funny and ironic, his _dear_ _brother _had found for him the costume of a legendary Victorian fictional criminal, Sweeney Todd. It appeared that someone had found the bizarre story of an homicidal barber so fascinating to write books, musical, and movies about this character...all these information were irrelevant to him, and Sherlock grumbled about the nonsensical sense of humor his brother possessed, while getting dressed.

John had retrieved his box and was in his room,preparing himself. When he had opened the package, the good doctor emitted a satisfied whistle,and went back to his bedroom. Molly's costume was still in the box, and Sherlock was thinking about stealing a glance at its contents, when he heard the knocking at the door,and Mrs Hudson's voice welcoming the pathologist.

His landlady appeared a few minutes later at his door, and wordlessly took the box and went downstairs. Thirty minutes later, neither John nor Molly were ready, and Sherlock's patience was growing thin. Thankfully, his best friend came down, and even the stoic consulting detective found difficult to not burst into laughter.

The ex army-doctor, now blogger, was wearing the most preposterous thing he had ever seen. A wig on his head, a high hairline with dirty grey hair; a black and white striped suit, and an awful amount of white and grey face paint were on his face. When his friend opened his mouth, a retort obviously ready, he spotted also disgusting fake teeth.

"Hey, don't laugh at me! I'm an iconic character, one of the best representation of Tim Burton's genius, and-"

"Tim who?" Sherlock inquired.

"Sherlock, you are aware that this party has a theme, aren't you?"

"It's irrelevant to me, John, and I think it should be to you too, because the only reason we are attending this stupis party is to find a traitor spy".

"So you don't know why you're dressed like that ?"

"It's different. I simply don't care"

"Well, I'll tell you anyway. We are all dressed like characters from Tim Burton's movie...I wonder about Molly's costume...who knows who she might be? Kim from Edward Scissorhands? Or maybe Sally, or...maybe she's your Mrs Lovett!"

"_My_ Mrs Lovett? What are you blabbering about, John?"

Sherlock's flatmate didn't have time to answer, because in that moment the door opened and Molly Hooper made her triumphant entrance.

"Isn't she a real beauty?" Mrs Hudson praised the young woman, and John was quick- too much quick, for Sherlock's taste...- to agree. "Molly, you're beautiful...or should I call you Katrina Van Tassel?"

Beautiful? No, Sherlock Holmes wouldn't use that word to describe Molly's appearance in the room. She was...Mesmerizing. Stunning. Breathtaking. The late 18th century white gown was appraising her minute figure, and the ample but at the same time delicate neckline showed only a part of her creamy breast, teasing his sight. Her hair, finally free from the everlasting but practical ponytail, was framing her gentle vise. No make up, only a faint blush on her cheeks and neck (a reaction to the compliments, it wasn't a difficult deduction to do) and a shadow of faint red lipstick on her thin lips.

Sherlock Holmes was no fortune teller, so his hypothesis was grounded on solid facts: he would need to take a close look at Ms. Hooper during the night. Only for her safety, of course. He took a last, lingering glance at his pathologist (_"Why do I call her like that, lately? She's a pathologist,nothing more than that..."_) and after clearing his sudden dry throat, he rasped a "Good, we are ready. Let's go" and opened the door. Mrs Hudson tut-tutted at him, in disapproval at the lack of appreciation at Molly and John shot at his rushing figure towards the front door a curious look, before helping a confused Molly to wear her cloak, and offering to her his elbow, to gallantly escort her to the cab that surely Sherlock had already hailed.

* * *

**Now :**

"We did it to save you, you git! that man was coming into the room, we distracted him so you could finish finding proofs in that laptop!"

"And you couldn't think of anything better to divert his attention that to snog my pathologist?!"

John decided to mercifully ignore his slip."It worked, Sherlock! He was so embarrassed-"

"More like disgusted". Sherlock's interjection was ignored by John who continued " that he left us alone, and that gave you enough time to find what we were searching for!"

"God knows how far you would have gone if I didn't stop you, "three-continents-John Watson"!"

"You pushed me away from Molly the second you finished and ordered us to return immediately to Baker Street, like we were two naughty kids!"

"Your behaviour was highly unprofessional, John! I was simply trying to be the professional one, and-"

"Sod off, Sherlock! You're just jealous!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"You heard me well, mate. You're jealous because you wanted to be the one kissing her...she's quite the kisser, you know? Oh, of course you don't..."

"John..." Sherlock warned him, his tone cold and determined.

"Her lips are so soft...and she smells delicious, like...like the first apple picked from the tree, you can't stop taste her..."

Another "John, I'm warning you" escaped from Sherlock's lips, his stance threatening. John Watson was not easily intimidated, though.

"No, I'm warning you, Sherlock. Make a move, or someone else is going to do it. You're not the only one interested, you know..."

"I'm. Not. Interested". The consulting detective denied vehemently, and his best friend smirked.

"Of course, Sherlock, of course. But you know what they say, denial is a river in Egypt...and now excuse me, I'm tired and I want to go to bed. Just listen to my advice: go downstairs and apologize to Molly. I kissed her, and not the other way around. She's frightened she did something wrong, but we both know that she's the most innocent human being in the world, so try to be as gentle as you can manage to fake, and reassure her that everything is alright, and you're not angry with her. Oh, and one last thing, Sherlock"

"Yes, John?"

"Leave the razor here, please"

* * *

A sleepy Mrs Hudson greeted him when he knocked at her door, and leaded him to her kitchen, wordlessly. There he found Molly, sitting at the table, drinking a cup of tea. She glanced at him, then quickly returned her attention to the steaming mug.

They remained silent for a few minutes, like they were still at the laboratory at St. Barts: but this time Sherlock was focused on her, and Molly oblivious to his scrutiny. His inquisitive eyes lingered briefly on her lips: they were brushing the mug's rim, and he couldn't help himself but wonder how soft they were, if her mouth would taste so delicious as John had described to him before...and what about her hair? Luscious, and surely, if only he could be so brave to touch it, he would find it velvety. Her perfume, on the other hand...that was the real problem. Since when did Molly Hooper smell so good? When he had pushed John away from her (with too much force than necessary, he could admit it now that his blogger was upstairs), the proximity allowed him to casually sniff her. She didn't notice, of course, because he knew how to be subtle, but a simple sniff was enough to cause a turmoil in him. It was something unexpected: a distinctive fragrance, he could identify the cinnamon, then something zesty...bergamot, or maybe orange, yes, probably orange...and then something peculiar, that even his massive knowledge couldn't help him pinpoint: her personal aroma, something that Sherlock Holmes feared could be as addictive as drugs. Molly Hooper had the potential to be worse than heroin and cocaine combined, to him.

A soft cough from her interrupted his musings. "Molly, I'm here to...".He knew what he had to say to her: a simple sorry, and all could be forgotten, and forgiven. His pride, and the sudden image of John, painstakingly glued to her, got him to say something different.

"I'm here, on behalf of my colleague, to apologize for his despicable behaviour. I reckon he drank too much tonight, and I'm sure you will be kind enough to forget that...that _kiss_" he spat the word like it was bile in his mouth "and forgive him. Part of the responsibility is mine: I should have controlled him better, and-"

The sudden laugh coming from the pathologist interrupted his speech. "May I ask you the reason of such hilarity? Do my words amuse you?". He sounded so comically outraged that Molly could hardly keep herself from laughing...and so, she laughed even more loudly, tears of merriment already threatening to spill.

After a few deep breaths, she managed to utter a few words. Between the chuckling and the snorting, Sherlock managed to catch "We didn't", "Not real", "Farce". Finally she stopped and looking at him with the most joyous gaze he had ever witnessed on her, she said to him "We didn't kiss! We were pretending to be kissing, but actually, we just made some smooch noises,while being embraced against the door. It wasn't real, Sherlock!".

Before he could stop himself, the consulting detective let out a sigh of relief...then, he saw Molly's eyes literally sparkle with satisfaction, and self-confidence. Molly Hooper had outsmarted him...and strangely he didn't feel irritated by the notion, not at all. He was proud, proud of her.

"It's Halloween, Sherlock...it was just a little trick". She explained, fearing he couldn't understand her glee.

"Well, Ms Hooper...at this point, I think I deserve at least a little treat". She managed to utter a surprised "Oh, well..." before his mouth was on hers.

John Watson was right (although he thankfully didn't have any proof in support of his statement, Sherlock thought). Molly's lips were very soft, and tasted sinfully delicious.

**Fin.**

******Thanks for reading. ****Leave a review, it will help you to chase away ghosts and monsters tonight...I promise. No, I'm joking, I have no power on the dark side...try with Darth vader. Or Moffat.**


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